


Total Non-Recall

by Attic_Nights



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, First Kiss, In a sense, M/M, Married Couple, Memory Loss, Post Series, angsty angsty schmoop, lassie has a beard, ok its angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 19:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4637448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Attic_Nights/pseuds/Attic_Nights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shawn remembers everything in his life, and it is as much of a curse as it is a gift. Which is why it is worrying when he wakes up next to Lassiter, and doesn’t remember a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Total Non-Recall

**Author's Note:**

> [If you have not seen Tim O's magnificent beard, you are missing out.](http://attic-nights.tumblr.com/post/127391847823) 
> 
> I apologise deeply for this.

Shawn remembers everything in his life, and it is as much of a curse as it is a gift.

He remembers the sensation of the carpet, rough and sticky underfoot, on his third day of school. The face and name of the barista who spilled coffee on Gus at lunchtime on March 12 in 2001. Every insult he’s ever been given, and the slack faces of those he passes in the street. The sound of every word, the movement of people like clouds, and the taste of those blood-splattered nightmares that wake him up screaming at night, unsure of what’s real when everything looks real. He can walk around his memories, step inside his head, and see something _new_. For every moment, every day, the frames of his life are crammed inside his head. Reassuring in their accuracy, and terrible in their persistence.

Which is why it is worrying when he wakes up and doesn’t remember a thing.

A sense of displacement, of wrongness, causes him to roll around on sheets too soft, strange gunpowder sharp in his nose. Awake, and scared to open his eyes just yet, he listens to his surroundings.

There was no screaming, no cocking of weapons, no sharp _schlick_ of a knife drawn from its sheath, but there was breathing. Heavy, deep and full – the cadence of slumber.

The last thing he can remember… he frowns but everything draws out of reach, hazy, overlaid with snapshot memories. Decorating the Psych office in streamers, Lassie’s peanut butter, a sobbing witness – nothing to hold onto, to say with any certainty that _that_ was the last thing he remembers.

Frustrated, he startles when arms encircle him, and a lithe body spoons him from behind.

Had he picked up? Was this a date rape? The man behind him nuzzles into his neck and Shawn shivers when his hands are grasped. Warily, he blinks open his eyes at their hands, entwined, curling towards his heart. There’s a scar on the back of the stranger’s left hand, running from his wrist to a golden wedding ring, received whilst defending Gus from a knife-wielding baddie, and just like that, Shawn knows that they’re Lassiter’s hands. They’re different though, with a few more scars, some newer than others, and –

“Stop it.”

Heart pounding, Shawn freezes at the words, gruff from sleep.

He swallows. “Lassiewise?”

There’s a grunt, and their bodies are drawn flush. He gets the impression of himself as a giant teddy bear. There’s a tickling at the back of his neck, and he stops short of scratching it, his hands still held in Lassie’s.

Lassie grunts. “Shhh. Thinking too loud.”

“Thought I was the psychic,” he finds himself responding – his words, as always, quicker than his thoughts.

To his surprise though, Lassie laughs, a low rumble, and Shawn feels it reverberate all the way through him. There’s a kiss to the nape of his neck, then that warm body relinquishes its hold. Shawn shifts to face Lassie, taking stock of his surroundings as he does so. Three grenade shaped candles sleep on a driftwood dressing table, an abstract pineapple painting crouches in the corner, and a dozen hair products litter the room, some with their caps still off.

Framing Lassiter's face is a short, sable beard, which explains the tickle at his neck earlier. Shades of pale silver, ruddy brown and black whorl together, matching the thick curling mop of hair on top of his head. This hides his ungainly ears, as Shawn always thought it would, back when he would tease Lassie about his bad haircuts, and it softens his face – he's bafflingly dignified even with bed head. The detective is aged, but he’s aged well.

“Gandalf,” he greets, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. “I like the whiskerandoes. Bouncy. Do you pin curl those?”

Lassie smiles sleepily. “So you keep saying.”

There’s a quiet moment wherein Lassie strokes his shoulder gently, his blue eyes half mast. Shawn’s heart thuds awkwardly and his face feels hot. There are furrows around Lassie’s eyes, creases bestowed by a thousand smiles and laughs that Shawn's never seen. He opens his mouth to tell him that he doesn’t remember, that he can’t do this – whatever _this_ is. Lassie blinks expectantly, even as he pauses to wonder if this is all a dream.

He raises his hand, shaking, to Lassiter’s face, trailing it through those coarse, curling locks. Lassiter allows the caress with closed eyes, a small, peaceful smile blossoming on his lips. Not a dream, then, but Shawn pauses again, noticing now the glint of a wedding band on his own hand. Lassiter’s eyes blink open, soft and full of trust. This strange Lassiter kisses him then, a hand sliding to the nape of his neck, holding on. Shawn trembles, frozen under Lassiter’s lips, which are as soft as a stray cat in the sun, and with whiskers just as bristly. As first kisses go, it’s unassuming, but he can’t stop shaking. Because it’s Lassiter, baffling, wonderful Lassiter. Because it's so _real._

He’s tugged closer, and there’s a slight nip at his bottom lip – Shawn gasps, finally relaxing into the silken warmth. It’s _Lassiter._ Lassie pulls back, bare inches, breath hot, and then this time it’s Shawn bridging the gap, kissing him.

Suddenly, Shawn doesn’t mind forgetting, since it means he gets to kiss Lassiter for the first time again. Retreating, Shawn swallows, smiles, and endeavors to work the memory loss all out on his own.

 

* * *

 

He wanders around their house, and it’s the work of a second to deduce his life from the walls. His reflection in the mirror is something else entirely though, something he’ll have to get used to, but he has time for that later. He brushes his teeth with a yellow contraption and replaces it in a frosted glass to cuddle its staid blue partner – obviously Lassie’s toothbrush. In their rustic styled kitchen, Lassiter is barefoot, swaying with pajamas slung low on his hips to Stevie Ray Vaughn. The radio crackles slightly, and he adjusts it with one hand, still scrambling eggs on the stove with his other. Blinking at this scene of domesticity, Shawn decides to make coffee. He peers at the stained oak cupboards and opens the one above the coffee machine. From it he draws two mugs – one with a Cop #1 emblazoned on a white background, and one with a cheery pineapple. To make sure he grabbed the right ones he peers into them, noting the teaspoon marks on the bottom of Lassie’s Cop #1, something devoid from his own, and smiles.

His smile vanishes when he peruses the coffee machine. From fading colors and worn indents, he can work out which buttons are most frequently pressed, but the order in which to press those escapes him. Thankfully, Lassie takes that moment to look over at him and chuckle.

“I’ve got it,” he says, and maneuvers Shawn to the side. "Eidetic memory my ass."

Shawn swallows around the lump in his throat, and produces a suitable excuse. "Tastes better when you make it."

"Yeah right."

Shawn notes the method to use the machine, and realizes with a start that Lassie expects him to look after the abandoned eggs. Staring at the pan blankly, he worries that he will ruin them, but then muscle memory takes over and he scuffs the setting eggs around with a wooden spoon. His right hand pours in extra milk before he even got the thought out – _these seem a little dry._ He stares at his hands long after the eggs are done and plated, annoyed that they could remember when he can’t. Traitors, he thinks, as he rubs them through his hair like he could absorb all their secrets.

Lassiter eats breakfast hurriedly and Shawn asks him if he wants seconds.

“I’ll be back in an hour.” Lassiter wipes at his mouth.

Shawn frowns at this, and that’s certainly not panic making his head spin at the thought of his only stable reference point in this world disappearing. “Can I come?”

“Yours isn’t ready yet. We agreed.” Lassiter mirrors his frown, then swears. “Shit.”

He dashes from the kitchen. Ramrod in his chair, Shawn listens to his footsteps getting softer before they grow louder again. He strides in clutching a diary with a sparkly pineapple motif.

“Um, we’re having lunch with Juliet and Gus tomorrow,” Lassiter explains somewhat awkwardly, waving the diary in his hand.

“Perhaps you should leave that out,” Shawn suggests, gesturing to the diary. Part of him is hung up on the way Lassiter isn’t calling them O’Hara and Guster.

Lassie grunts, rubbing his temple. “Sorry, forgot. The electrician called late and I left it in the study.” He lays the book down next to the blender. Shawn’s fingers itch to rifle through it.

He does so when Lassiter leaves, the heat of a goodbye kiss etched into his lips.

 

> **Saturday**
> 
> 10am - Civil War reenactment measurements
> 
> All day –
> 
> Put up curtains.
> 
> ~~Adopt a puppy xx~~ Not until you put that fence in!
> 
> Email Vick re bet
> 
> ~~Shave face fungus~~ No.

 

> **Sunday**
> 
> 12pm Lunch Gus + Juliet … + afternoon?

 

Flipping through the other dates, he notices the continuous back and forth between him and Lassie. Deciding the continue the tradition, picks up his pen.

 

> 3pm Audition for season 666 of Supernatural
> 
> Shave off beard, nail to Frisbee, and fling it over a rainbow xx
> 
> Adopt Kitten

 

* * *

 

He finds the DVD already in the drive, its hollow case flopped like a broken bird beside the flatscreen TV. It’s how Lassie finds him later – hugging a pillow on the couch, surrounded by photo albums, and watching the video with the volume turned high.

Lassie’s a tall shadow behind him, carrying in with him the scent of a warm summer’s day. There’s a sharp tang of gunpowder again, like there was this morning, like Lassiter wears danger as a coat, one stitched with protection on his sleeves. A joke dies on Shawn’s lips, his breath catching because the Lassiter on the screen – whose face is painfully earnest and sweet, but looking more like the Lassie he knows – takes his younger self’s hand on the altar.

Lowering the volume on the television, Lassiter speaks over his videoed self, muffling the vows. “You’ve been watching that a lot lately. Missing the glory days? I can still fit into the suit y’know.”

Shawn ruefully looks down at his own figure, slightly softer than he’d left it. Perhaps all of those creamsicles were a bad idea after all. Lassiter bends down and plants a conciliatory kiss on his cheek, as if he knew what Shawn was thinking. “You’ll fit, too.”

Shawn shrugs. “I’ve always wanted to be married in a Scooby Doo theme.”

“Since when?”

“Since I look gorgeous in an orange sweater. Keep up, Lassiedoo.”

Shawn turns back to watch the screen, and feels a panging loss in his gut when he watches television Lassie slide the ring onto his finger. Loss turns into frustration when he tries to recall the memory. He missed it; his wedding is gone. Could it have happened if he doesn’t remember it? He isn’t aware he’s frowning until he feels the couch dip and Lassie sit warm and steady beside him. Then there are hands on his face, turning him to face wide, worried blue eyes. They ask a silent question – _are you okay?_ He breaks their gaze and stares at his hands.

“Can we renew our vows now?” he asks.

Lassiter smiles indulgently, eyebrows perched high. “Again?”

“Again?” he parrots, confused.

Lassiter misinterprets him, and rolls his eyes. “Christ, Spencer. Do I want to relive the happiest day of my life? We can get married again every single day if you want. Twice a day. So long as it’s not during my tap class or in the middle of a funeral again – _that_ was embarrassing.” Though his words are teasing, his expression is serious. “What’s wrong?”

Shawn smiles airily at this man, his husband, and tries to work out a way to tell him. That he's actually Drew Barrymore in _50 First Dates_. Rachel McAdams in _The Vow._ That no, it’s not _wrong,_ but he’s not okay. How much he wishes he could remember what he did to deserve this level of perfection at all. He waits for the interrogation, but it doesn't come.

Lassie’s brow pinches and the corners of his mouth downturn. “You haven’t forgotten to take your meds again, have you?” Meds? Medication? Lassie's long fingers run through the mop of his sable hair. “Jesus, Shawn. Don’t know what the hell you’re doing these days.”

Shawn shrugs off the worry. “Skittles count, right? Because I definitely took some of those.”

Lassiter sighs. Instead of going out to the kitchen, or wherever it is that the medication is kept, Shawn finds himself drawn into Lassie’s arms. They slot together with the kind of satisfaction that would make Tetris jealous, with the kind of ease that spoke of years of experience. Cuddled by ambient sounds, they watch themselves get married. And, listening to his husband’s heartbeat thrum under that wiry chest, Shawn smiles under the glow of the television, feeling another glow deep and warm in his very bones.

 

* * *

 

“Do we still do the dipsy doodle now we’re married?” Lassiter stumbles out of his trousers and swears. Sitting up against their pillows, Shawn can’t help a strain of worry color his thoughts. Didn’t they? “Cream the Twinkie?” Perhaps Lassiter misunderstood him. “Assault with a friendly weapon?”

Lassiter turns, naked, and rakes appreciative eyes down Shawn’s body. “Assault with a friendly weapon? You’re slipping. You used that one at the start of the month.”

Shawn feels a flush run through him, equal parts embarrassed and apprehensive. He's running hot against the cool of the night, and he can't remember if they've left any windows open. Plucking at the bedspread, he knows that he wants this, has wanted this for years. From the moment Lassiter bent his gangly legs and sat opposite him in interrogation room two. But what if he did something wrong, like something that he should know, but doesn’t, because of his memory loss?

The bed dips and he lets Lassiter kiss him firmly and eagerly. He runs his hands along smooth shoulders, but Lassiter pulls back.

Scrubbing at his beard, Lassiter flicks blue eyes over his face, reading him. “Don’t have to do it now.”

“Tomorrow?” The weight unexpectedly lifts from his chest.

Lassiter tilts his head from side to side as if he’s considering it. He stops and grins widely. “It’s a date.”

“You’re such a dork.” He shoves at Lassiter good-naturedly, who uses the momentum to fall beside him.

Gangly limbs shuffle under the covers and the lights flick out. “Stuck with me now, Spencer.”

“Like pavement gum. All gooey and warm from the midday sun, stringy… and surprisingly still good to use.”

Lassiter grunts. “Marginally better than our wedding vows.”

Shawn reaches for Lassiter’s hands and holds them, just as Lassiter had held his this morning. Even though he doesn’t remember all the steps, the precious moments that led to this, he looks forward to their life. New moments, shining moments, he can both create and revel in them. With an imperious smile, he kisses Lassie on the nose. Lassie huffs out a laugh at that, and angles Shawn’s jaw up for a soft kiss.

He pulls back slowly. “Goodnight Shawn.”

“Nighty night, Lassieheart." Shawn clutches at Lassiter like he means to never let go. He grins. "You’re unforgettable.”

 

* * *

 

Shawn remembers everything in his life, and it is as much of a curse as it is a gift. Which is why it is worrying when he wakes up next to Lassiter, and doesn’t remember a thing.

Again he keeps quiet and enjoys their first kiss, and falls asleep to dreams of excitement and anticipation. It becomes a cycle - waking up, not remembering, never experiencing a tomorrow, mind slipping away bit by bit. Until the day Shawn wakes up and can't remember the man lying next to him at all.

Until the day Lassiter takes Shawn to the beach, both bundled up like the Michelin man in their winter coats. Side by side they lower onto a creaking bench, their knees popping in the fresh morning air.

Lulled by the sound of crashing waves, Shawn blinks at Lassiter. "You know, you remind me of a cop I used to know."

Lassiter smiles sadly, happily, and takes his husband's hand. "Marry me, psychic?"

Confusion lines Shawn's face, then those lines are pushed into a grin. Unknowingly, he repeats his very first answer to that very same question.

"Why not?"


End file.
